Lost in the Shadows (The Lost Series Book 3)

by Tracie Douglas

  This time, I moved up the ladder much higher than anticipated. They placed me at a remote compound to protect the product. Turns out the product was a group of women used as sex slaves to entertain men with money and connections. We had suspicions this place existed, but it wasn’t until I was assigned there that we confirmed it. What I witnessed there changed everything. It made me more determined to finish this right.

  It’s what brought me here, to the top, vying for the spot of right-hand man to one of two heads in this organization.

  And tonight is supposed to make it final.

  I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes staring at myself in the mirror in one the most luxurious bathrooms I’ve ever seen, wondering if I’m soon to follow in their footsteps. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Wanting it to, especially after some of the things I’ve seen and done to get here. Fuck, I’d be surprised if I can find a single ray of sunshine at the end of this job. My faith in humankind has been tested hard this time around, and I’ve seen a lot of bad shit happen. Hell, I was on the receiving end of something completely fucked up and still lived to tell the tale.

  Nine months. It should’ve taken me twice that time, if not longer. It was all too easy.

  I hang my head, swallowing my worry and accepting the fact that I’m probably going to go home in a body bag. If I’m lucky. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to focus on my role because I’m due downstairs for an announcement.

  Either I’m going to die or be celebrated. Both possibilities make me sick to my stomach. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I need to stay alive for just a little while longer, because they’re arriving tonight, and they need me breathing.

  My stomach rolls because there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop what is about to happen. As much as I want to turn and flee from this place, I can’t. There’s too much at stake, too many innocent lives counting on me to do my job and play my role for just a little bit longer.

  I briefly run through the list of girls arriving tonight for the thousandth time. It’s something I’ve been doing since the moment I was informed of a problem at the docks. A problem with the new shipment of product coming in, the same shipment I was assigned to oversee.

  The product, at first, is always unknown to me. I don’t usually find out what we’re importing until the cargo is safe and secure at one of the many warehouses the organization owns. The last few shipments have been trivial things like huge lots of stolen electronics, high-end clothing and jewelry. There was even a car or two.

  This time, however, was different. I had that sense since the evening the shipment was announced. The house became frenzied, and it was clear to me that I was finally going to have the chance I’ve been here all along for. When the call came in, I insisted on knowing what we were expecting and why there was a problem with this shipment after all the other shipments prior had come in without a problem.

  When I was ordered to have the shipment delivered to headquarters instead of the warehouse, I signaled my team to get ready. Security tightened in all aspects, and headquarters was soon in lockdown mode.

  Headquarters being the Las Vegas mansion of Armando Castranova, one of the two heads leading this organization. Armando runs the west coast while his lifelong partner and friend, Charles Pullman, runs the east coast. Both men are the epitome of evil. The shit they are involved in makes my head spin. I’ve discovered things about them no one knew about. They were involved with shit even the world’s best investigators had no idea of. I carefully gathered my proof of these things, adding to the list of things these men would hang for, once all is said and done.

  I just need to bide my time.

  So, to stay focus on the task, I once again run through the list of girls, reminding myself of the reason why I’m here. It’s not just their lives I care to save but those who have travelled through the doors of this building, cuffed and bound, only to leave it with no hope of ever being found again. I want to save them as well, and the only way I can do that is to wait.

  Tonight is their unveiling. Only those closest and highest up in the organization will be in attendance to celebrate their arrival. Armando and Charles will both be in attendance. Which is rare for obvious security reasons, but if rumors are to be believed, it has been a long time since the west coast was able to successfully bring a new shipment of girls into the country. This is something to celebrate.

  And it happened because of me.

  A knock on the door behind me shakes me from my thoughts.

  “Sir, they are waiting for you to join them downstairs,” a heavily accented voice calls to me from the other side of the bathroom door. I swallow hard, placing the last bits of the real me aside, and pull down the metaphorical mask I’ve been wearing for the last nine months.

  “I’ll be out in a moment,” I answer, giving myself over to my character Tony and allowing my voice to turn gravelly. I watch as the coldness seeps back into my olive-green eyes, turning them almost black, and listen to the sound of feet shuffling away from the door.

  Taking one last look at the stranger now staring back at me, I push off the counter and head out.

  Tony Tonelli has a celebration to attend.

  *****

  “If it isn’t the man of the hour,” Brock Johnston bellows from across the glitzy sitting room. He moves toward me, a grin plastered on his face, his hand out. Brock is Charles’ right-hand man, the opposite of the position I’m aiming to attain. Armando’s man had been recently relieved of his responsibilities, after I had discovered him and Armando’s youngest daughter in a compromising position. All eyes were on me for the position, and I had no doubt that my actions today have somehow sealed my fate. “Already here to collect your prize?”

  My attention return to the man in front of me, and I narrow my focus on him. I outweigh him by fifty pounds at the very least and tower over him. I’ve always been a large man, but in comparison to the bastard in front of me, I’m a fucking beast.

  “Brock.” I nod at him, taking his offered hand. A cocky smirk plays on my face as I resist the urge to punch the smug look off his face. Brock is a sick son of a bitch, one who pretends to be high class when really he’s just another lowlife out to make money on the back of innocents. “The only prize I seek is knowing I’ve done my job and I’ve done it well.”

  “Have you seen them?” he asks, his body vibrating with excitement.

  “I have.” I shrug, trying to act nonchalant about it. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours poring over their files, committing everything about them to memory, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Do you believe Armando will be satisfied?”

  “For your sake, Tony, I hope so.” Mirabelle, Brock’s wife, sidles up to me looking poised and poisonous. Her emerald eyes glitter dangerously, raking the length of my body. It’s no secret she doesn’t like me, but that doesn’t stop her from eye fucking me every chance she gets. “I’d hate to see that pretty-boy face bruised and battered if he isn’t. Then again...”

  “Mirabelle,” Brock interrupts, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Your claws are showing. Tony has done something outstanding. He’s brought life back into the organization. I suspect even you’ll be pleased once you feast your eyes on the goodies.”

  “Darling.” Mirabelle bats her lashes at her husband, pouting her large blood-red lips and pushing her breasts out. I shift uncomfortably as the vision of her lips wrapped around a cock dances in my head. It’s the vision she wants the men around her to see, but the truth of it is, Mirabelle’s a sadist, an insatiable one, too. “Will I be able to choose a new toy?”

  Brock smiles down at his wife’s chest. His thoughts flit across his face, making my stomach churn. Mirabelle’s using her wares against her husband to get what she wants. The look in Brock’s eyes tells me she’s going to get her way; she always does.

  “After Tony, then and only then may you choose.” Brock’s eyes flit to me, their dark orbs piercing me to the core. My stomach sinks
. Shit, I did not see this coming. I should have known, though. Armando has made a comment or two about me being alone as I prove my worthiness. “Armando wants our boy here to have a new toy of his own. After all, he’s earned it and has proven his worth to us many times over now.”

  I give him a nod, knowing full well this isn’t about my worth or what I’ve earned; this is Armando further weaving me into his web. This is his way to assure control over me. It’s what men like him do. But I can’t help believing it’s also some kind of test. One to prove my loyalty.

  “Brock.” Mirabelle’s nasally whine sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me. I watch the exchange between them. She pulls on the lapels of his jacket, pressing her body tightly against his. She nuzzles his neck, then her tongue darts out and runs the length of his jaw. “I want first choice. I’m sure Tony won’t mind if you ask him nicely. For me.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say quickly and clear my throat. I shift uncomfortably on my feet, because the last thing I need to witness right now is Mirabelle dry humping Brock. If I didn’t have to choose at all, I wouldn’t. This sort of thing isn’t for me, but I have no choice. I have a job to do, and part of it is keeping up the charade of being just like them. “But for a price.”

  “Oh my, Tony wants to play.” Mirabelle’s voice is husky with want, as she turns to ace me. I’ve piqued her interest and pleased her, because she watches me hungrily. I notice a flicker of distrust pass between her need and baser instincts. I don’t think she’ll ever truly trust me. Good. She shouldn’t. She’s one of the people I can’t wait to see go down. “Interesting…”

  “I want a favor, one I will lay claim to later.” I extend my hand to her, and she takes it, moving out of her husband’s hold. I pull her toward me, locking her tightly against my body. She purrs, pressing her nearly naked breasts against my chest, and I lean down to bury my nose in her neck. Her sickly-scented perfume fills my nose, nearly choking me. I lift my eyes to Brock, knowing already I’m not crossing a line, because they have a special kind of marriage. Brock likes to watch his wife get fucked by other men. Not that I know this from personal experience, but word travels fast amongst the ranks, and I was warned about these two very early on. “Do we have a deal?”

  Mirabelle chuckles throatily before her lips find mine. She kisses me full on the mouth, plunging her tongue past my lips and down my throat. Her hands reach for my cock, rubbing the ridged size of it. I groan, stifling the disgust I feel rising in my gut, and remember Tony would react with interest to a woman like her. My hands find her fleshy ass and squeeze hard. She breaks away, her green eyes liquid, her breath rapid in her chest. She might not trust me, but she wants me. “We have a deal.”

  She steps back just as Armando finally makes his entrance into the room. He’s late, but no one dares to say anything to him about it for fear of his wrath. He might be a small man, but looks are deceiving. I know firsthand how vicious Armando really is. He thrives on torture and the mistreatment of others. No one with half a brain dares to cross him.

  “Tony, my boy, come here,” Armando’s Spanish-accented words call me over, and I move closer to him. Mirabelle, still on my arm, stumbles alongside of me. Armando glances down at her, disgust curled in his lip. He lifts a hand and waves her off. “Mirabelle, go hump someone else for the time being, Tony and I have some business to discuss.”

  Mirabelle’s face falls; she doesn’t like being dismissed, but like the rest of us, she knows better than to disobey Armando. She moves away, skirting the edge of his small entourage, carefully watching and listening.

  “Armando.” I nod respectfully. He gazes up at me with merriment in his eyes.

  “Tony, my boy.” He reaches for me, bringing me in for his traditional greeting of two kisses, one on each cheek. “I knew you were going to do good here in Vegas. Brock, didn’t I tell you this boy was going to do good things for us?”

  “You did,” Brock agrees, crossing his hands behind his back. Unlike his wife, Brock is part of the entourage, but only because he’s Charles’ man. He stands with us. “You were right about him. I take it you’re satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?” The older man throws his hands up in the air, his voice much louder than before. “I couldn’t be any happier. They are beautiful, Tony. The best shipment I have seen in years, and you made it happen.”

  “I’m happy you’re happy.” I smile, bowing my head slightly. Armando likes to feel important; my gesture shows him complete respect. “I’m told everything went smoothly; my contact in customs is happy to offer his services for any future shipments we may need him for.”

  “Very good,” he exclaims before turning to the tall, lanky man lurking nearby, his personal assistant. “Andre, please make sure Tony’s contact is well paid for his services.”

  Andre nods and pulls out his mobile smartphone, making work of his task. He says nothing when he is done, just puts his phone away.

  “Where is Charles?” Armando smiles again. This time, his gaze lands on Brock.

  “I’m afraid he’s been delayed,” Brock explains, his demeanor subservient to the small man. “But he wanted me to express his joy and assure you that he’s set to arrive in the early morning.”

  “Humph.” Armando’s face falls, torn between worry and disappointment. He’s ready for his pat on the back from his old friend and desperate to parade the goods, like they do after every new arrival. Only he can’t do that now; Charles hasn’t arrived.

  “He did say, though, that you shouldn’t wait for him. He knows how excited you must be to show off the girls,” Brock informs him. I can see the concern flit across Armando’s face. It’s clear he doesn’t want Charles to miss out on the occasion, but this is a big night for his side of the operation. “I’ve been emailing him all night. He truly believes we’ll see a much larger profit margin this quarter, thanks to your gut instinct and Tony’s determination to get the job done.”

  “Indeed.” Armando claps his hands together, silencing the room. With his smile once again in place, he turns to the room. “First order of business: Tony’s reward for such dedication.” He turns toward me and motions me to his side. “I have preselected four girls for you to choose from. They are the very best of the group, and I know you will agree with me when you see them for yourself.”

  “Excuse me, Armando,” Mirabelle’s voice, small and diminutive, comes from somewhere behind us. He turns, glaring at the woman. She flinches from the sudden freeze filling the room. She interrupted him. Not a smart move on her part. “I apologize for interrupting, but Tony has given me the right to choose first tonight.”

  Armando turns back to me, his face filled with irritation and disappointment. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, Tony. Is this not to your liking? Are you not happy with your reward?”

  I shoot Mirabelle a menacing glare. She should’ve let me be the one to tell Armando of our new arrangement. “I’m honored you have chosen this way to reward me, sir, but I do not feel as though I deserve it,” I explain, keeping my face blank and my eyes downcast. “I was only doing my job.”

  “Nonsense.” He shakes his head, clearly not agreeing with me. “You did the impossible, and that deserves a reward, one of my choosing. Yet you insult me by giving it away—”

  “Sir, it’s not my intention to insult you. I simply wish to please Mirabelle for my own special reasons.” I chance interrupting him, but I know I’m worth something to this man. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so insistent.

  “You would choose a whore over something so pure and innocent as the girls I have lined up for you?”

  Mirabelle gasps; her hand flies to her throat as she tries to feign being insulted. Her eyes seek her husband’s, but he remains passive and unflinching. Armando’s words are truthful. Everyone knows it, including Mirabelle.

  “I’ll not allow this.” Armando turns to Andre, waving his hand for the show to begin. Andre opens a door to the left of us and disappears into darkness. “You will have first choice
, Tony. Mirabelle may choose second.”

  I glance over at Mirabelle, who is quietly seething. After she is once again dismissed, her body shakes violently in protest. Armando’s word is law, and there is nothing I can do about it. Her eyes meet my mine from her spot now across the room, and a silent agreement passes between us, calming her immediately. She will tell me her choice, and I will make sure she gets it.

  When Andre emerges from the dark doorway and into the room, the soft sound of chains clanking together comes from behind him. Armando’s eyes light up with glee as four nearly naked women are led into the room, their hands bound at the wrist with metal cuffs, each linked to the next with a connecting chain. Andre holds the end of his chain with one hand, pulling on it as the women briefly hesitate in their obedience. They are only a small fraction of the “shipment” I helped smuggle into the country.

  They are the reason I’m still here.

  They are the reason I must not fail.

  Their lives depend on it.

  Chapter 3

  Damien

  Mirabelle’s eye light up like the fourth of July, seeing the women for the first time. Her gaze darts between each one and then back to me. She’s impressed.

  “Beautiful,” Armando whispers, as his eyes glaze with something I don’t recognize. He’s a sick bastard, but I can’t let it faze me. As if he can read my thoughts, he looks at me with a curiousness buried deep in his eyes. He waves me forward. “Go. Inspect and choose.”

  I take a hesitant step forward, my gaze on the women chained and shivering before me. My gut clenches at the sight of them, but I pause, placing my character Tony on full blast. I trudge on, stopping just short of the first woman.

  I see fear in her deep brown eyes and instantly wish there were a way I could take it away and make her feel safe. But I ignore the emotion, refusing to let anything other than interest be seen on my face. I can’t show an ounce of pity to these women. It isn’t my job to see them as anything more than property to sell. Anything else will be a sign of weakness. I can’t afford weakness.